Unchosen Crown

WHAT IF I WASN'T DONE LOVING YOU?

Four years had passed since Ian and Oliver last spoke.

That unexpected call, while Oliver was writhing in anxiety awaiting Lily's arrival, was a gesture of pure altruism that touched the depths of his heart. An act of genuine kindness he would have reciprocated if his time hadn't been consumed by endless commitments, rehearsed smiles, photos beside Sofia, and diplomatic meetings around the globe.

And then, there was Lily.

Lily was a ray of light that, against Oliver's own reluctance, illuminated and transformed his entire perspective. After her arrival, things changed drastically: Oliver was no longer the submissive accomplice to the monarchy's archaic traditions. He became more outspoken about actions and practices that could, even remotely, impact his daughter's well-being and freedom.

They agreed not to expose her image too much and held firm to this agreement, despite protests from the Queen and her loyal advisors. Even though the establishment insisted on opining about how he should raise her, saying he should show her more to the world, none of it mattered to Oliver. When it came to Lily, he was not at the mercy of power. Although her existence was so brief, she awakened in him the desire to transform his legacy into something worthy of her future — a life not just of titles and faded expectations, but a vibrant existence, filled with love and happiness for her.

The longing for Ian dissipated with distance, but never completely vanished. Oliver still found himself thinking of him more than he should, wondering how he was now, what his new habits, preferences, and pleasures were. Ian's presence, even if distant, remained like a warm ember in Oliver's heart, a constant reminder of the deep bond they once shared and the lasting impact he had on his life.

Now, the constant sound of raindrops on the foggy window provided the soundtrack for the stories Oliver told Lily, imagining fairies and enchanted forests. Only the glow from the laptop screen and the warm light of the old lamp bathed the room in a golden aura. His fingers, once agile dancers on the keyboard, now felt like lead statues, tired and stiff from a whole day of conversations with literary ghosts.

Sofia's touch on Oliver's shoulder was so light he almost didn't feel it, like the caress of a feather. She placed a warm, delicate kiss on his temple, and suddenly the floral perfume emanating from her skin momentarily overpowered the subtle fragrances permeating the room, and Oliver allowed his eyelids to close, surrendering to the comfort of her embrace.

Sofia's voice broke the midnight silence, blending perfectly with the calm that covered the room, as if it were intertwined in that cloak of serenity. Her whisper reached Oliver's ears like a gentle summer breeze.

"One more story?" Sofia's voice floated softly, while the silk of her robe danced with the night breeze, brushing gently against Oliver's arm. A muffled murmur escaped his lips, heavy with the fatigue that enveloped him. With persistent tenderness, Sofia's fingers traced the line of Oliver's jaw, guiding his gaze to the depth of her eyes, filled with genuine concern. Her eyes shone with a mixture of care and curiosity. "At this rate, our Lily will be a teen before you finish all these stories," she joked, eliciting a tired smile from Oliver's lips.

Sofia felt the accumulated tension in his shoulders, rigid with the invisible weight they carried. Sliding with the subtlety of a shadow, she leaned over the table, her eyes piercing any barriers Oliver might have erected.

"Are you okay?" The question echoed in the silence, suspended in its own rhetoric.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Oliver retorted, forcing a calm he didn't feel. He looked away but was captured again by the intensity of her touch — a gentle grip that brought the world back into focus.

"Oliver, I know you," Sofia's statement, though spoken in the softest tone, carried an undeniable truth. With a gesture that had become characteristic of her, she placed her hand on Oliver's laptop and closed it, sealing their connection with a comfortable silence. "You haven't been the same since your grandmother's passing. You're distant, constantly isolating yourself here," she observed, while a shadow of understanding passed through her eyes, serene as the surface of a lake disturbed by the wind. "You still harbor resentment, don't you?"